Letting Go
by rivernymph99
Summary: Just a one-shot. Hopefully quite sad. please read and review xx (not much i can say without giving too much away!)


**Hi! I haven't updated in a while (kind of a mixture of homework struggles and writers block) but I had this one idea I really wanted to write about a********nd my other fic should hopefully updated soon! **I've really tried hard to make this sad and would really appreciate if you could comment? (Pretty please?) Oh, and the italics are flash -backs :-) Thanks for reading xx

* * *

Late summer used to be Sam's favourite time of year; the way the sun seemed to breath lazy life into the earth enchanted her. The warm breeze disturbed the solitude, trees danced and the late-blooming flowers opened to reveal burnt oranges and deep purples. It was sleepy but exiting. Warm, but humid air began to settle.

This year was no different; the sun was setting over the hills and through the trees, casting golden light over the valley and onto the grey stones. The overgrown grass, almost hip-height, wound round the bricks in the wall and whistled in the uneven gashes of wind which were drearily stopping the swarms of midges from crowding the dimming sky. Often, the 'croak' of a frog would be heard over the intense strings of grass-hoppers, adding a base to the natural orchestral sound-scape. It was a dreamy evening; blissful and preserving.

Tom and Sam's fingers touched ever-so-slightly but didn't actually connect. Both had been on automatic - searching for each other's hand but realised at the last second it would be best if they stood separately. They were entitled their own thoughts; it only fit they stood alone. Their heart beats were slow and strong, working relentlessly to keep their bodies from melting into the dusty soil and seeping under the ground. If that happened they'd all be together again.

It was like this the whole car journey; each considering things to say, anything just to break the heavy silence, but deep down knowing nothing anyone could say would withdraw them from the entwining labyrinth of their own thoughts. They would hear each other's sound but not listen - it was like this a lot this past year, really.

Not that this bothered Sam. She knew Tom loved her and whether they were ever going to be like they _used_ to, or not, didn't matter.

In the night, when she lay awake looking at the plaster patterns on the ceiling, letting her head overflow with anger, with sorrow, and her body trembling with hatred, she could reach out to his side of the bed and he would be there too; tears fresh on his burning cheek and all-familiar tensed, aching chest. He would reel her in like a fish, and just let them take comfort in seeing pain in someone else. There was a time when he'd found her in hysterical tears by the docks after she'd ran, spurred by absolute fury, for five straight hours. He'd held her hand - the smallest of gestures. But it had brought her back down to earth; reminded her to keep _living_. 'There was only one chance of that', she had told Tom and herself. It was only fair she used her turn whilst she still had it. Come to think of it, in a couple of months that would be a _year _ago. Had it been that long, already?

On a day like today, when some type of "anniversary" came around, she could look into is eyes and know he felt the same things. He was in _that_ place too. Living in _that_ day.

Tom wanted to be able to talk about it but couldn't. He just couldn't. Trying it once was enough.

* * *

_Tom came charging into Sam as if he physically couldn't stop. He wanted to keep walking forever: hike into the distance away from whitewashed walls, drugs and blood. Into the open arms of the ocean where he could then stop moving, stop breathing, stop hurting._

_But he had to be the one to tell her. The one to hold her down when she started to run away. She was good at that._

_"Sam..." He started. She screamed and buckled to the floor, clasping at his jeans for familiarity before she had to let that go._

_Tom hardly needed to say much; she got the message._

* * *

If you traced a line where Sam's eyes were pointing it would terminate directly on the grave. It was set apart from the others; being placed behind a wispy willow's swaying branches to defend it from wondering eyes and angled so it overlooked the open fields to embrace the sight of setting sun sinking into oblivion every evening. It was also a few hundred years younger than the rest: the modern, white marble seemed out of place near one where the inscription was almost undecipherable and the slab crumbled around to edges. It would stand out like a sore thumb.

They didn't want to think about _why_ they'd picked this spot to bury their daughter. How do you make that choice?

The church held no sentimental value to them; it was just this pile of crumbling ruins that surly hadn't held a proper service for decades. Despite its age, it wasn't noticeably ornate; a few arched windows and a couple of spiralling pillars, but no angelic statues or biblical tributes. A flock of crows had found home in the shadowy caverns of the steeple and clusters of twigs spilled out, occasionally hitting the bouncy banks of grass when they fell. Perhaps that's why they liked it; surly no one could ever discover her disturbingly lonely resting place? They didn't want their child to be acknowledged by some random drug addict or nosy dog walker; not anyone really - she was theirs. Only theirs.

However, Sam wasn't looking at the grave at all. If you peered into her eyes you would notice _they_ couldn't see _you_. The minty green irises were illuminated by the salt water that sat warily on the sockets; her pupils were lifeless and withdrawn. Whoever said that loss gets easier with time was a liar, because for Sam, time had only made her realise she would have to live without her child forever. Every day was the same. She was tired of everyone looking at her with pity in their eyes. She was tired of feeling like her heart was being ripped out of her chest every living, breathing moment. She was tired of waking up in the morning, and then remembering. She knew this day was coming but didn't think of it as being a year ago; the days weeks and months all rolled into one massive blur of sleepless nights and exhausted days. The ticking of the clock had gotten so loud.

She slowly raised her arm out towards the grave. It took her several seconds to let the ruby red flowers fall at the foot of the grave. As they hit the ground Tom made a loud sniff. The hand he had held so closely to hers lifted to his face and rubbed his eyes. They burned as hot as embers and leaked water like a drainpipe.

His daughter had died. His _daughter_. A year ago today he had put her in the ground and lost a part of himself: _of_ _themselves._

That moment his whole world had ceased to exist and left a shell of the life he once had and took for granted. Sam had dealt with it in her way, him in his, and both had trusted the other to keep them going. I was just the fact that they couldn't move past that day. He couldn't let go. Sam couldn't let go. What kind of parents were they if they just left their child because she was dead?

* * *

_"Please." Tom said in a despairingly calm way. He looked and the freshly dug soil and fought the urge to hurl._

_"I can't though." Sam whispered. She had one palm pressed against the name. Her title forever written on a grave. It was finally time to give up. She hadn't said it yet;_ _she couldn't truly believe it; __that she was dead. But touching this cruelly marked tombstone now, she knew her child was gone and never coming back. Nothing could make that go away. Denial was unhealthy. _

_"Just. Say. It." Tom answered. He needed her to do it. They could never leave if she didn't. Sam had to admit it; it was the only way._

_"She's dead." Sam said without any further encouragement. It silenced Tom for a while. "I know, now." Sam croaked. She suddenly jerked up on feet and stood beside Tom._

_"Why didn't you say it then?" Tom turned to face her directly. They looked each other in the eye for the first time in weeks. He was shocked to see how different his wife appeared, how much a look in the eye could reveal. Had she died too? _

_"Because now it makes it real..." Sam breathed hauntingly quickly, trying to hold in her welling tears._

_"What do you mean?" _

_"I wish it wasn't," That was the moment Sam collapsed into Tom's waiting arms, barely able to finish what she needed to say. "And sometimes wishes come true."_

* * *

An astonishingly regal peacock butterfly fluttered in the breeze. Watching it dance in the fast disappearing sunlight among the branches and the midges; they watched it land on her grave. The dusty wings slayed out displaying tits purely unique pattern drooped over her name like a curtain. The colours were bold and bright against the dull, white marble.

It was only there for a moment, but that was enough. Sam thought of the day she explained to Isobel that butterflies lead a short but happy life; just because their lives were short didn't mean they were tragic. She remembered the two of them watching a sapphire blue one flying in the warm sun among the daisies in their garden, how Isobel had kept held her breath when it flew close and stayed still for what was possible the first time_ ever_. Sam remembered the complete wonder on her daughter's delicate face.

She was dead; but she wasn't gone. Not really. Her body was in the ground under their feet, but that was all. The rest of her was still there with them; it was all along. Only the hurt and pain had dimmed all the happy memories. All those rare and sacred memories. The beating, alive winds of the butterfly began to whirr...

It was gone, it flew away. She was gone. But she wasn't.

The butterfly shrank deep into the amber-orange sky, and eclipsed the setting sun.

"She was beautiful." Whispered Tom.

The sticky coating on Sam's lips stretched and ran away as she opened her mouth for air; her nose and eyes were oozing with water. She had been thinking the exact same thing.

"She is, Tom. She still is."


End file.
